


The Dog and the Bat

by Aondeug



Category: Touhou Project
Genre: F/F, Poetry
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-08-22
Updated: 2019-05-03
Packaged: 2019-06-30 22:00:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 26
Words: 4,737
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15760554
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aondeug/pseuds/Aondeug
Summary: The Scarlet Devil Mansion is a house of horrors, filled with bloodsucking vampires and who knows what else. The Scarlet Devil Mansion is also home to a surprising romance between a vampire and a human, the mansion's mistress and her chief maid. Contained within are a series of poems about that love. Some happy, some not, and all about the perplexing relationship that is Remilia and her maid Sakuya.





	1. Silly Little Human Questions

People ask you at times  
why you serve the vampire-  
it's always 'the vampire' too,  
never her name-  
like the one yesterday.  
As you pulled him off  
at the edge of a knife  
and his hands bound behind him  
he asked and begged and pleaded  
'How could work for that thing?'  
'How could you forsake your own?'  
'How can you even call yourself human?'  
They were funny questions really  
and with a simple, simple answer.  
You only laughed and shoved him on  
with nary a hint of sympathy though  
and hardly an explanation.  
  
The answer only comes later  
after he is long gone  
having been drained dry by her  
and she stifles a yawn  
before giving a satisfied 'Thank you'  
and collapses in your lap  
even though you need to clean.  
  
It's a simple set of questions really  
with an equally simple answer:  
She loved you when your own would not.


	2. When you want it, as you want it

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> warning for cg/l

You like to be a child  
but only when you want it  
and as you want it.  
Like right now  
as you sit safe and sound  
cloistered away in your chambers,  
far from the others.  
There is just you,  
you and the maid  
who is more a nanny now,  
just as you like it.  
  
There's a plate in front of you  
sitting down on the table  
and it has a sandwich  
which you turn your nose up at.  
'You need to eat,'  
she tells you that,  
goading you kindly, gently  
almost like a mother,  
or what you guess mothers to be  
based on books you’ve read.  
You need to eat  
but you'd rather play,  
much rather play.  
You tell her that of course  
with a little 'I'm not hungry.'  
It's a mumble and a whine,  
and she's _not amused_.  
  
The maid sighs and tries  
over and over to get you eating,  
to just behave  
for just one moment  
because you're going to get sick  
if you keep this up  
and she made it for you,  
just for you.  
Because she cares  
even if you're just a child  
who needs to act her age.  
You're a big girl now,  
goodness!  
  
It's not triangles though  
and you tell her so.  
'It isn't even triangles!'  
That complaint,  
oh you'd never live it down  
if anyone else heard it.  
You're just a child to others,  
if a dangerous one.  
To hear that?  
That'd just confirm the fact  
and that thought  
fills you with terror.  
But for _her_ to hear?  
That's the point,  
exactly, perfectly the point.  
It's not triangles  
and you don't even like apples,  
which is a lie.  
  
The best thing though,  
besides getting to whine  
without being mocked  
and never, ever respected again,  
is hearing that inhale  
and frustrated exhale  
as she draws out a knife.  
'Fine,' she says,  
'But you'd better eat then.'  
Hearing that  
the informality, the authority  
all while she gives in  
and slices the sandwich neatly in half  
crossways, just how you like,  
it's precious, wonderful.  
That sheer respect for you  
but getting to play the fool.  
You'd almost cry  
but instead you just smile  
and grab at your food  
with nary a 'thank you'  
until she chides you for it.  
  
Play comes next,  
thankfully, gratefully.  
You've always fun with that  
even though you mock Flan  
for her own playing  
because you're the vampire  
and she's just a child.  
She's just a child  
until you are too,  
hidden from the world.  
Hidden from the maid too  
as she searches for you  
calling out over and again  
that she's going to find you,  
that she's going to catch you.  
But how can she  
when your hiding is so clever?  
So you think  
until she finds your wardrobe  
and throws the doors open  
startling you.  
  
You run of course,  
always the sore loser  
when you don't have your pride,  
your face, to maintain.  
You run and run  
while she gives you a lead  
just for fun's sake  
even though you don't need it,  
not really.  
That's part of the game  
and so she gives it  
before chasing after you  
and as she catches you  
you're grabbed tightly, tightly  
right around your waist  
and hoisted up, up  
into the air  
while you squeal,  
And you giggle.  
  
Set back down  
onto your feet, onto the floor  
you turn about to face her  
grin wide on your face  
and one on hers too.  
She leans on down  
to give you a kiss  
right on your brow  
which makes you blush  
because she's so close,  
so very close.  
You keep things separate though,  
the child and the lady,  
so you reach forward  
and hug her instead  
because now is not the time.  
The time right now  
is to be a child.  
  
A child who gets worn out  
after a time  
as there's only so much energy  
one girl can have  
after running through the manor.  
You yawn and rub your eyes  
and she picks you up  
with a firm statement  
that it's time for a nap,  
firm yet kind  
just as you like.  
You argue a bit  
but only vocally  
as you lay your head  
right into her and cling away  
as there’s no point in fighting,  
not anymore.  
  
You're changed  
from your clothes and on  
into your bed things  
and she tucks you right  
into your bed too  
and you get another peck  
right on your forehead.  
Satisfied with your compliance  
as you roll over  
clutching to a doll  
she starts to head out,  
candle in hand,  
and you think again  
on how you like it,  
to be a child  
when you want it  
and as you want it.  
  
As the door opens though  
you know that you like  
but only when you like it  
and that when's never forever.  
She knows that too  
so she lingers a moment  
before you call out to her  
using her name  
for the time since you two hid:  
'Sakuya.'  
She turns to look at you  
and you command her  
that you'd like her there  
as a sleeping mate.  
She complies of course,  
ever the faithful dog,  
and she steps on over  
and sets down the candle  
before undressing as you watch  
and climbs into the bed.  
Your doll is thrust away  
and off the bed,  
before she's thrust down  
and into the bed.  
You like to be a child  
as you like it,  
when you like it.  
But now?  
Now you're done being a child.


	3. Not tame just yet

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've always been really charmed by the vampire hunter theory for how the two met. And I wanted to try mixing that with the fact that Sakuya was heavily ostracized by people and how she can honestly be kind of really mean at times in canon.

That vampire,  
It sure loves to speak  
As though she,  
The dog,  
Were ever to care.  
It prattles on and on and on  
About some and such book.  
About how dull it was,  
How typical,  
Except for this one part!  
‘Oh, it was exciting right then!  
But it’s such a shame,  
only that one bit was good.  
If only the rest were like that, Sakuya.’  
  
The dog scowls,  
Baring her fangs  
At her ‘name’,  
Hate barely contained.  
Of course it cares not  
And continues on and on and on  
Ever the more  
About some and such book  
Until it stops to ask for tea.  
Polite.  
Proper.  
Almost like a person,  
If one squinted.  
Almost but not quite.  
  
Mutt or no,  
She still has some pride left.  
Just enough to spit  
Right in its face  
And not even give a word,  
Yes or no.  
  
The dog is sent to her kennel.


	4. More than a maid

A maid is a maid  
and more than a maid.  
A foe turned friend  
and caring confidant.  
A lover dear  
who’s always here.  
  
Her name is Sakuya,  
a most faithful hound.


	5. A warm cup

One cup of tea  
is what she gets  
as a kindness,  
a thank you  
for a warmth  
you never got  
till now.  
  
You might think it the start of friendship  
if you knew what a friend even was.


	6. A thirst

I am yours  
utterly and totally  
so please, mistress,  
tear open my throat.


	7. Mess

The mistress drinks tea  
until the cup falls, breaking.  
Yet another mess.


	8. Feeding

The moon rises  
and the maid is pushed down flat:  
a vampire's prey.


	9. Eternity

You look into the mirror and see a child.  
You look into the mirror and know you're undesirable.  
You look into the mirror and fear for the future.  
You look into the mirror and see a sham of a lady.  
  
You look into the mirror and see the maid behind you.  
  
**Oh.**


	10. Who's a good girl?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> warning for petplay

She’d hated it  
Being called a dog  
But now?  
Now she looks up  
At the mistress,  
Down on all fours,  
A collar on her neck  
And her hands?  
They’re close together,  
Pointed out and  
Fingers curled up  
Like little paws  
As she looks up  
To beg for a treat  
Or even a pat.  
Just one,  
Just even one  
Tiny little pat  
Would be more than enough  
As she looks up  
And gives a bark,  
A perfectly tame dog  
For her mistress  
Just the way she likes.  
  



	11. Bite of boredom

Cleaning-  
a big word for the mansion,  
and one she ignored  
for days and weeks on end,  
until at last  
she grew a bit too bored.  
  
Duster in hand,  
frown on her face,  
the Dog takes to tidying up  
just as her Mistress asked her.  
  
The shame stings,  
but less than boredom.


	12. A perfect success story!

Dearest Diary,  
you'll not believe it  
what just happened  
on this fine day.  
The maid, oh, the maid!  
Why she's taken to it,  
to the cleaning!  
Right and proper  
and perfectly tame;  
it all comes down to it,  
to good training  
and a bit of warmth.  
Why, I think today  
that I'll give her a treat  
just one  
for a job well done.            


	13. Now where'd that come from?

Childish, absolutely childish...  
You'd been wondering, you had,  
just where all the rolls were going  
night after night, fewer and fewer,  
when really there should be more.  
Now look where you've found them,  
one half in that thing's mouth  
as it looks at you from the pantry   
eyes wide with shock  
and face red with shame.  
You'd think her a child almost  
had you not seen the act,  
how she tore open that girl's neck  
and so many others after it.  
  
She?  
  
That's not the word you want  
so you force it aside  
and you can't stifle a sigh  
as walk right up to her  
a scolding ready  
for one can't just eat rolls  
and certainly not after dinner  
when one should be in bed.  
  
When did this become your concern?


	14. Jack be nimble, Jack be quick

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written for Femslash Feburary 2019. The prompt was "Sharp".

Get that knife up nice and close,  
right against her throat  
deep in the night  
as the daybreak approaches.  
  
It's sharp isn't it?  
Of course, of course.  
Would Clever Jack be so dense  
as to not sharpen the blade  
when a hunt comes by?  
  
Rest the blade  
against that flesh, so pale.  
You'd think her dead already --  
and **_it_** is, really.  
  
Just one cut,  
that's all it'd take, all it will.  
Pull back the hand nice and slow  
and let the silver do its job  
to burn the flesh away, and the sin.  
  
But Jack's hand?  
It's stayed and her heart right with  
as she looks on down  
at that girl as the daybreak approaches.  
  
She'd never faltered before.  
No, not ever, not once in a hunt.  
Not when the prey was demons,  
not even when it was man.  
Tonight though, Jack can't work his art.  
  
Got herself a scarf, she did,  
right on Christmas Day  
and you'd think her normal,  
you'd think her human with that gift.  
  
How can one hunt what treats them right?


	15. That's just not your color, dear

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written for Femslash February 2019. The prompt was "Pink".

She loves pink, she does.  
It's why she wears it  
day after day.  
But to see the maid  
all dressed in pink?  
Now that's a sight  
and a funny one at that.  
  
It clashes with her hair,  
it clashes with her eyes,  
and what does she wear anyway  
each and every day?  
Blue.  
Blue on white  
with a shock of green  
in her silver hair.  
  
Black is her color too,  
come to think of it.  
It goes well with white  
and with green too,  
but mostly?  
It mixes well with her mood.  
She smiles and she jokes, yes,  
and she plays and she loves  
but her mood isn't pink  
nor is it red,  
beyond a flash of it at the neck.  
Her mood is black or it's blue;  
a bit on the downside,  
mellow and morose.  
  
So while the mistress loves pink  
more than any color  
in all this world  
and in Gensokyo too,  
she can't help but laugh  
and even frown a bit  
when she sees her maid in it.  
It just doesn't fit!  
  
And the maid?  
The maid agrees  
wholeheartedly  
that pink just isn't her color,  
thank you very much.


	16. The meaning of her name

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written for Femslash February 2019. The prompt was "Lavender".

The mistress wants herself some tea  
with lavender in it, she does.  
So the maid sets out in the morn  
with a little note in hand in her hand  
describing the exact sort the mistress wants.  
The name, the place, the color of the blossoms  
and even this darling paragraph of tales  
rambling on and on about such and such use  
for this very specific lavender are all in this note.  
  
The flowers are only found on such and such mountain  
in such and such a place  
at such and such a time.  
You'll need to wait for days and weeks  
just for a chance of a chance  
to pick the flowers while they're in bloom.  
Hardly any ever have the patience for it  
and one man even had so much patience  
that he died right there on the hill of starvation  
as he waited for the flowers to bloom, the fool.  
  
So the maid heads out on the hour  
during a time when no lavender blooms  
but this one sort alone, so the mistress says,  
with a basket in hand and a lunch too  
which she packed herself the day before.  
She has the note too of course,  
tucked away in her pocket nice and neat,  
as she directs the maids just so  
and the gate guardian too  
so that she comes back to a mansion at all  
after she's come back from her search for lavender  
at a time when none grows at all,  
save this one specific sort, so the mistress says.  
  
The blossoms, should you steep them just right  
will cure any ailment known to man,  
save but one perhaps and that's an easy fix;  
just pluck out the man's eye before the tea!  
If you burn the leaves and the flowers too though  
you'll make a poison so very potent   
that even a drop of the tea hitting the ground  
will bring death to the soil for a hundred times a hundred years.  
There's another tale told by another man, so it goes,  
that when he touched the blossoms on the hill  
while looking to remember his dead wife once more  
that she sprang up from the ground before him,  
alive once more if only for that one night.  
  
With this and many more tales in mind  
the maid treks up the mountain  
even though she must battle youkai after youkai  
explaining each and every time time her mission,  
which is to bring her mistress just this lavender  
so as to make it into the perfect tea  
and from this hill that never grows lavender  
though the tales she was told swore it is so.  
The youkai, each and every one, laugh at the maid  
and they tell her, one and all, that she'll find none here  
for no lavender ever blooms her, regardless the season.  
  
She keeps on her trek though and at her task,  
explaining again and again how she won't stray  
not even a little from this or any task the mistress gives.  
She tells just the same to one dog to another  
and that very dog says how sad it is  
to see her wandering around fruitlessly at her master's call  
and how sad it is to see her willingly believe such lies,  
for surely she must have noticed they were lies  
when she heard the tales and read the note.  
  
The truth is not the point of it, though.  
They misunderstand that, each and every one,  
even if she explains it in explicit detail  
that the truth of the flower is not the point of it.  
Nor is it her getting the flowers,  
or is it her making a tea with the flowers,  
or is it the story of the man's dead wife,  
or of the ailments the tea can cure  
or anything else at all of the flowers, really.  
The truth of the lavender was never really the point  
nor could it ever hope to be the point to the maid.  
The truth of the matter was the searching at all  
just to humor the mistress and ease her boredom.  
The truth of the lavender was to see her smile.  
  
The maid lays this out eight times, she does,  
and in each of those eight not a one grasps it.  
Some of them argue it with her  
or try to dissuade her from her work  
but she ignores them each and all and keeps on   
until at last she reaches the fabled peak  
at the fabled hour in that fabled place.  
Up there at this hour when no lavender blooms  
she gazes out at the scenery stretched out below  
that is painted pink by the coming sunset  
and it is then that she knows the true truth of it,  
of the lovely lavender that grows when none blooms at all  
and where none has ever bloomed before.  
The mistress will laugh and protest that this is the truth  
and she will claim it was all but a joke she played  
to get the maid some exercise and to get herself a giggle  
but the maid now knows the truth of it, she does;  
that the point of the matter was never the lavender  
though deep down it was lavender of another sort  
as she blooms once more under the mistress's care.


	17. A loose grip, a gentle hand

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written for Femslash February 2019. The prompt was "Balloon".

Summer festival  
and a little pink balloon  
bought by the maid with your coin.  
  
Ah! She let it go!  
Tears you wipe gently away  
and sorrows float away too.


	18. A longing for light

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written for Femslash February 2019. The prompt was "The Sun".

The sun,  
she misses it sometimes  
and wishes to see it again.  
Really see it again  
like when she was a child  
before she turned.  
  
On those days  
when the longing is fierce  
and makes her want to risk  
running out into the light  
even though it will burn  
and reduce her to ash,  
the maid comes.  
  
A parasol  
is held above her head,  
for hours even.  
If she wants it  
and with not one complaint,  
never,  
as the maid gives her a chance  
to see the sun once more.  
or at least what it touches.   
  
That is devotion.


	19. Mirror, mirror...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written for Femslash February 2019. The prompt was "Damned".

The Judge stands before her  
staff raised to the Heavens:  
a judgement!  
Her sin is revealed at once,  
a coldness to her fellow man.  
  
Yet even so she stands still  
face unmoved and heart too.  
She cares not  
and states as much in even tone.  
Men meet her blades. That is all.  
  
A frown from the Judge  
who lowers her arm  
as she brings forth a mirror.  
She will burn for 9x9999 years  
and then for another 9 by 9.  
  
The flames do not daunt her  
nor the time.  
Let her burn if she must  
but by the Lady's side she stays  
till her dying breath.


	20. Devil take the list!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written for Femslash February 2019. The prompt was "Shopping".

Sometimes the lady of the house  
just wants to go out and about,  
not for any need of it, no,  
but for the fun alone.  
So she grabs herself a parasol  
and follows the maid out the door  
off to do the morning marketing.  
  
The humans shrink back and away  
and she smiles wide at that,  
a respect born out of fear,  
while keeping a close hold to her parasol  
and a close eye on the ground.  
One trip is all it takes to ruin it,  
both her image and her trip  
and what a trip it is, she can't ruin it.  
  
The maid has a little list  
penned out in her careful hand  
with all of what they need  
for this next coming week.  
Fruits here, vegetables there  
and the bread man is argued with  
before they're off to get tea,  
all while the lady watches wide eyed  
with wonder and glee at this.  
  
All the more when she spots it,  
a strange looking little fruit  
with red skin and charming barbs  
and it's just so dear and precious  
that she has to have it right then.  
She demands it with ease  
only to have her demand denied.  
  
It's not on the list, says the maid,  
and the list is sacrosanct, Miss.  
Not even a good pout moves her  
because there's only so much coin  
and there's only so much time.  
Next time perhaps, if she requests it,  
but for the moment the fruit must be left,  
though it pains her to do so.  
  
The lady can't argue with the maid in her domain.  
She can certainly refuse to go shopping again though.


	21. Lunacy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written for Femslash February 2019. The prompt was "Space".

We're going to the moon we are,  
you decided that last night  
when you stared up at the fake moon  
and when the madness hit.  
  
The maid, ever dutiful, bows to your whim,  
though thinking on it again  
she's really not sure how this will work  
and what are half the things you ask for?  
  
But you're going to the moon, you are,  
the whole family in fact, even the guard,  
and that bookworm and your sister too  
but most especially the maid.  
  
Now quick! The tube!


	22. Knife Trick

The mistress sits off and to the side  
'neath a parasol in her garden  
as the gate guard and maid take their spots.  
Apples are held aloft, three in all, one by one,  
and the next moment they're kicked into the air  
by the gate guard yokai, that Hong Meiling;  
her technique is nothing to laugh at, if she's awake.  
The maid, she waits, her eyes closed, knives in hand,  
until the clock strikes just the right second  
and in a instant which she holds still  
the knives are flung forth with a deadly accuracy  
before she looses her hold on the hours themselves.  
One, two, three. A knife pierces each apple  
and splits them all neatly in twain  
all for the delight of the little lady who laughs  
and who claps like a child at the show of skill  
that belongs to her and her alone in all this world.  
The Izayoi bows down and deep  
with a smile spread across her face  
for the satisfaction of a job well done.


	23. A familiar tune

    The seconds tick by  
    one  
    by one  
    falling familiar  
    in a rhythm  
    you know  
    by heart.  
  
    You don't need the watch to keep the time.  
    You need the watch to stop the time,  
    to slow it, to hasten it, to play with it.  
    To keep the time though? You don't,  
    and what is there to keep, really,  
    when you don't flow at the same pace  
    as all the others do and when the seconds  
    are a rhythm you know so terribly well.  
  
    The seconds tick by  
    slower,  
    yet slower  
    as you watch the mistress  
    chat up a guest,  
    the witch.  
    An eternity awaits,  
    you know  
    by heart.  
  
    You don't need the watch to keep the time,  
    but you pick it out of your pocket anyway  
    as the mistress talks on to that witch,  
    because while you don't need the watch  
    to keep the time you do need it to play with it,  
    and because you know how long seconds stretch  
    during these tea parties the mistress loves so.  
    It's a rhythm you know terribly well though you flow  
    so different from those around you.  
  
    The seconds stop.  
    Frozen.  
    In a moment.  
    Everything.  
    The witch and the cups.  
    The birds singing outside.  
    The rain against the window.  
    The seconds stop  
    for all but you  
    and her.  
  
    She's frowning now, you can tell,  
    without even having to look over  
    because centuries of hours and hours  
    will do that to a person's heart  
    so that even little gestures and turns of phrase  
    become rhythms burned down deep  
    just like the seconds you can keep.  
    She's frowning now about to scold you  
    for interrupting her tea party, her story,  
    that she's losing track of, you know,  
    because she's not used to seconds stopping  
    right in their tracks for a moment or twelve  
    before picking right back up at the second  
    left lingering in the air for an hour or more.  
  
    The seconds stop  
    her words,  
    they too,  
    before she can get them out  
    frozen quiet  
    by it:  
    a kiss.  
    The seconds stop  
    truly,  
    metaphorically  
    and your heart  
    skips a beat  
    as would hers  
    if it still beat.  
  
    She's blushing now, you can tell,  
    even with your eyes shut tight  
    because even after centuries and more  
    she's still not used to her time thrown off  
    as you slide the seconds to a halt  
    for the witch and the birds outside  
    and the cups and the rain on the window  
    but not for yourself and not for her.  
    Because the seconds stretch on and on  
    and you know how long the parties go  
    and you could count them down exact  
    right to the very last second, just perfect.  
    It's a rhythm you know well, burned down deep,  
    just as this moment will be, for centuries,  
    long after you pull back and away, standing up,  
    and she frets and frowns and fusses, flustered.  
    Because it's not a rhythm she knows well  
    and her words have gotten lost now  
    and there's one thing she does know well  
    that's been burned down deep from shame.  
  
    The seconds tick by  
    one  
    by one  
    just as before.  
    The seconds tick by  
    words  
    they're lost  
    just as before.  
    The seconds tick by  
    and you  
    smile  
    just as before.


	24. Weaving a new thread

I see scarlet  
staining the skies  
scarlet like eyes  
edge of life  
left on behind  
behold! a priest  
peering on up  
a full moon  
made of time  
told in halls  
home of orphans  
full of nothings  
nothings to tools  
tools to till  
tilling the land  
land of the Lord.  
  
I see scarlet  
staining the hands  
hands held high  
holy sign raised  
rending the soul  
sending the dead  
departure of men  
malice of man  
monsters we cut  
cursed by all  
always the red  
red with white  
white clockface  
forcing to break  
boundaries of man  
made by men  
men of God.  
  
  
I see scarlet  
staining the soul  
sorrows piled up  
up on a hill  
honor torn down  
dead women's wrath  
wandering the streets  
streets of hunters  
hunters of man  
man made monster  
mouth of fangs  
fullness of rage  
beast lashing out  
out they cast  
Cain's spawn reveling  
raised knife flashing  
flickering light  
light that's red  
red once blue  
blur of madness  
march of freedom  
"Forgive me, Lord.  
Lord of death,  
grant me death,  
do this please."  
  
I see scarlet  
stained threads fraying  
fate falling down  
down into red  
red like dawn  
dawn never rising  
raised up anew  
new night's thread  
threaded through fingers  
fingering through life  
life made new  
new name now  
now in bloom  
a maid made  
mortal still yet  
yearnings fulfilled  
friends aplenty,  
friend of man,  
friend of me.  
  
I see it.


	25. The morning's respite

The nights stretch long for the maid  
whose chores seem never to end-  
Clean this, cook that, fight them-  
to say nothing of the game she plays  
at the vampire's beck and call.  
  
Yet though the nights stretch far  
there always comes the dawn  
and with the sun a chance for rest,  
so she collapses into bed heavy, hard,  
after tearing off her clothes.  
  
With the dawn comes the maid's rest  
and sometimes the vampire too,  
who sneaks on into her room quiet  
and gives her a thankful kiss there  
before crawling into the bed too.  
  
The dawn settles and they both too  
right into a deep, deep sleep  
with one curled around the other, perfect,  
until the next night rises with the moon  
and the chores right again right with.


	26. A Lovers' Exchange

"The dawn approaches  
and you approach just the same,  
a moon brilliant as the sun."  
  
"Sleep approaches us  
and your arms wrap about me  
as the night does to the day."  
  
"The warmest embrace  
before I carry you off  
as like a prince yet a maid."  
  
"A prince and a maid?  
What if a princess instead  
to be kissed by a lady?"  
  
"Is that the story?  
I thought it princes and girls,  
unless you insist of course."  
  
"Oh, I do insist!  
Far better a princess  
than some lowly, tired frog."  
  
"An honor you give,  
such as befits a high moon  
as like yourself, my mistress."  
  
"A kindness it is  
exchanged only to you, dear,  
the lotus that blooms at night"


End file.
